


The Empty Problem

by Roadstergal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Depression, Dubious Consent, Gen, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:55:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Dark Fest prompt: <b>Post-Reichenbach Falls: After Holmes ‘dies,’ John loses it.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Empty Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kahvi for the beta.

The standfirst was very simple, probably rattled off by a publisher's assistant to stick up on the AP. _Two London men fall to their deaths in Switzerland_. A brief article rattled off names, ages, a quote or two from the bystanders who saw them fall from the craggy peak into the water far below.

As far as John Watson was concerned, they could just stop writing newspapers. Nothing they reported on could possibly be important now.

He hadn't liked the idea of Sherlock going to Switzerland alone, not one bit, and had not believed the man when he said it was for 'a conference' with Mycroft. But John had always deferred to Sherlock, and did so this time, as well. It had been a hideous mistake. It hadn't been a conference, of course; it had been Moriarty. Sherlock had somehow stalked him there, they had fought, they had died. The Daily Mail (John hated himself for going to their site, but it was an exclusive) had shaky video from a tourist's digital camera - two men, one tall with a shock of dark, messy hair, in a long black coat; one shorter and slender, in an immaculate suit, the two fighting - the image jumping dizzily as the bearer of the camera turned to speak with a friend, then rushing back for a blurry shot of two bodies, so closely entwined that they looked like one, dropping into the rather famous falls.

And, being the Daily Mail, they speculated on a possible homosexual relationship between the two.

John moved out of 221B. Mrs. Hudson tried to convince him to stay, offering to charge him only his half of the rent until he found another flatmate, but the last thing John wanted was to share these rooms with someone else. The second-to-the-last thing John wanted was to stay there alone, sitting in his usual chair, in a silence he knew would never again be broken by a dark-haired human whirlwind flying out of Sherlock's room.

Fortunately, a room was free in his old army housing. It was affordable, it was plain, it held no memories of Sherlock. It held no memories of anything. Just as it was when he returned from Afghanistan, it was a place to sit, look blankly out of the window, chew at his mistakes like a trapped animal chewing the wrong leg off, and have nightmares.

It was easier to stay inside, anyway. His leg pain had returned with a vengeance, and he had to lean heavily on his cane just to get around, so he greatly preferred to sit on the edge of the bed and brood. After two days, he turned off his phone. The annoying buzz with a name atop - Sarah, Harry, Lestrade - disturbed him from chasing the tail of his thoughts, and that would not do.

After about a week - he wasn't quite sure, as the days blurred together, but he had certainly seen several dull sunrises come and go - he left the building for a rare meal; he only ate when his stomach grumbled too sullenly and persitantly to ignore. While hobbling back, he picked up a newspaper that had been dropped in the lobby of his building. On the way to put it in the recycling bin, he noted the headline. _Regents Park Rapist Strikes Again_. The article itself was burbling prose - fifth sexual assault near the boating lake, public worried, police unable to do anything.

John shrugged and dropped it in the bin.

Later that night, as he sat on the edge of his bed in his sweats, looking out of the window, the thought struck him - I could sit and think anywhere.

The slow burn of _purpose_ started, deep in his viscera, not felt since Sherlock had left. He could _do_ something. No, not could - _had to_.

He stood, stripping off his sweats and pulling on his clothing. For the first time in two weeks, he didn't even think about his cane as he left his room.

It took two nights of waiting, concealed in the rushes, but when John finally caught the man in the act, the woman's screams stifled almost to silence by the man's preternaturally large hands, the sick _thunk_ of John's gun-butt on the pervert's face felt so good that he disposed of the gun and used his fists - over, and over, joyously, cathartically.

Back at his quiet, empty room, his clothing and himself carefully cleaned of blood in the shower, sitting on the edge of the bed again - he felt validated, disgusted, a little sick and extremely fulfilled.

He just wanted to do it again.

* * *

It was almost a month later when John found himself at a gay bar. It was, surprisingly, not as discomfiting an experience as John had feared it might be. The atmosphere was mild, the music quiet; the clientele were clean in appearance and not excessive in drinking habits, and not too much older - the median age looked a bit over John's, but not much, and a smattering of men who appeared to be in their mid-to-upper 20s filtered through the moderate crowd. John kept his eyes on them.

A few men came up to John's booth with interest in their eyes, but his appearance seemed to make it clear that he was in no mood for company, and they skipped his booth to find greener pastures.

Except for one.

"Oi, what are you doing here?" a familiar voice said, and John looked up into an instantly recognizable blunt-featured face, crowned with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair.

"What are _you_ doing here?" John replied, sullenly, hoping Lestrade would take the hint and leave.

Lestrade did not. In fact, he slid into the booth next to John, uncomfortably close, putting his pint on the table. "I _like_ it here," he replied, as if a little surprised by the question.

A few things plinked into place in John's brain. Lestrade, single and apparently happy to be so, at a gay bar. Nobody had ever mentioned it - but really, what reason would anyone have, in this day and age, to do so? John nodded, feeling a bit of an ass.

"You didn't answer _me_ , though," Lestrade replied. "I did peg you as leaning this way a bit, but I can tell," he put his hand on John's side, touching the gun John had secreted under his coat, "that this isn't a social visit."

John shrugged, and Lestrade leaned close, far too close, and hissed, quietly and angrily, "Look. I know it's you who's been getting on these buggers we've been picking up, all bloodied and trussed up, and this is _not your job_. The twink who's been robbing the old fellows? We're on it, we'll get him, and we'll do it _right_. You need to cut the vigilante shit, and I mean it."

Anger boiled in John, but he swallowed it down, hissing back, "You didn't bloody well get the rapist, did you? Or those yobs outside of the club? Or that Craigslist..."

"Look, John," Lestrade hissed, interrupting. "We..." He glanced around, and John noted that they were drawing some attention from the clientele. "We can't talk here. Come with me."

"Go ahead. I'd rather stay."

Lestrade put his hand on John's gun again. "I can have you arrested for this, right now, and you know it. Let's skip any unpleasantness, eh? Come with me."

Being forced to walk with Lestrade, the other man's hand wrapped around his arm like a vice, was bad enough, but the knowing looks the other patrons gave them as they left was worse. One of them, he fumed, was already picking out potential victims for tonight's robbery, but that wasn't a concern of Lestrade's, was it?

Lestrade took John only about a block and a half - not to Scotland Yard, which was a decent ten-minute cab ride away, but to a small flat in a decent little building. If John had expected Lestrade to have Queer Eye living quarters, he would have been disappointed; it looked like any flat leased by any given bachelor, with discarded take-out containers and dishes sharing all available flat spaces with magazines and odd socks.

John hadn't been expecting anything, however. All he could think about was talking himself out of this. After all, if they had any solid evidence that he was the vigilante, they could easily run him in; the fact that they hadn't meant that they merely suspected.

"Look," Lestrade said, locking the door and walking into the middle of the room, "I know you're upset about Sherlock and all, but..."

John swallowed down a bust of anger. What did Lestrade know about Sherlock? _Upset?_ That word was pathetic, inconsequential, hideously inadequate. He... John took a deep breath. Control yourself, he told himself internally. Pay attention, Lestrade is still talking.

"...can't have you out there doing that. We have procedures to make sure we do it right, get the man, get the evidence. It takes longer, but we _get the right man_."

"Longer." John snorted. "Sometimes, not ever."

Lestrade strode closer, his own face displaying some of the anger that John felt. "The rapist? We had to _let him go_. No evidence! He's out there, no charges, smelling like a rose. How does that _help_?"

"He'll think twice before raping..."

"Yes, and the second thought will be _I fucking got away with it_ , won't it?" Lestrade interrupted. "If you want to honor Sherlock's memory, letting criminals walk is _not_..."

John didn't even realize he had thrown a punch until he saw Lestrade stagger backwards, and felt his own knuckles sting. Lestrade looked momentarily startled, then angry, and then he was on John, and they were struggling, fighting, Lestrade ripping off John's coat to get at the gun, both of them tripping over what they couldn't see on the ground and backing into walls and doorframes, and their faces were together, and kissing was as natural as punching as they fell on the ratty sofa.

It made sense, some detached part of John thought, for Lestrade - he had been there, the fight with the girl, when one type of physicality turned abruptly into another; when sex was as damaging as fighting, and although both knew it would be utterly regrettable in the clear light of day, it was too cathartic, then and there, to _not_ do it.

For John - well, it was Sherlock he had wanted to do this with, wasn't it, but he had never said a word, and now Sherlock was dead - so what did it matter, really, that he had someone else's tongue in his mouth, that he was stripping someone else's clothing off, a body that was almost tall enough, but too heavy and solid, weighing him down; the voice in his ear not dusky enough as he was spread, then filled.

There was pleasure, yes, clamping down on his brain as he mewled into the arm of the sofa, and pain, too, rather a lot of it, but he deserved that, didn't he? That _wrong_ voice grunted in his ear as the friction against the couch and the insistent pummeling drove him over the brink; he came, gasping and whimpering, and he thought he heard himself moan _Sherlock_ a time or two. But it wasn't Sherlock who gasped at that and came inside of him, groaning through his teeth, and the only consolation John had was that he was leaving semen stains on Lestrade's sofa.

Fortunately, Lestrade seemed as embarrassed as John felt, and so it was easy enough to slip out once Lestrade climbed into the shower. The D-I had certainly achieved his goal; it was late, almost into the time of early risers, and the robber would already have struck if it was his intent to do so.

John would need a cab, eventually, but for now, he wanted to walk, despite the slight ache that persisted from the... activities he had concluded earlier. His leg was starting to hurt, as well.

He was a failure. He hadn't done what he had come out to do. He would just have to deal with that - move on, get this target another night, and find another one for when he had disposed of _this_ man. Sherlock's memory. John stopped, leaning up against a wall, suddenly not trusting his legs to support him. His right one was shooting pain, and his left one had no strength. This was not Sherlock's way, no, but John was not Sherlock, and he would have to do what he could, in his own way. It was all he had...

The sound of a disturbance in an adjacent alleyway was a welcome diversion from his thoughts. He looked in, seeing the silhouettes of a man and a woman, arguing vehemently. They stopped when they saw he was watching - and a solid blow to his upper back knocked him hard on the concrete, making stars explode in his head.

Hands on his arms, a flight in the air, landing on metal, twin slams as the world went a little darker. He shook his head, trying to clear it. A scene came into slight view, dancing around with the stars in his head. A Transit, some kind of cargo van, metal floor, metal benches, figures on the benches. Hands grabbed him again, two of them on his body, two more on his legs, forcing him down onto the floor; two more hands took his right arm.

"The other one. He's left-handed, you idiots."

The voice was high-pitched for a man, lilting and horribly familiar - yet the name _Moriarty_ had no sooner entered his head than the hands moved to his left arm, stretching it out, and a boot stomped on it with a sickening crunch. He screamed.

"Drive," Moriarty said, and the van started up and started to move. "They might think just one of those is someone having a good time, around here, but a few more, and they'll get suspicious." His giggle was blood-chilling.

The van moved slowly, so Moriarty had no trouble keeping his balance as he walked over to John, where he lay still gasping in pain and held down by what John could now see were dark-clothed thugs with robbery masks on. "Surprised to see me?" Moriarty hunkered down, smiling, giving John a view of his immaculate suit, starched white shirt, and perfectly knotted tie. "You can't believe everything you read in the Daily Mail, you know!" He stood back up, nodding to the thugs. "Legs. We don't want him gooooing anywhere!"

John struggled against the hands holding him down, but there was no getting away. What broke his fibulae on either side felt like a crowbar, this time, and it was a good few minutes before he could stop screaming. The yobs took that opportunity to search him, finding his gun and his army knife, both of which were handed to a languid Moriarty.

"If I may speak, now?" Moriarty asked, once John had recovered enough to start pulling in harsh, ragged breaths. John glared at him, but could not yet force any words out, and Moriarty doubtlessly could tell. "Oh, you can be adorable, can't you? I can see why Sherlock kept you around, I can. His own stupid fault, though, since it's because of you he's _dead_!" Moriarty screamed the last sentence in incoherent rage, spittle flying into John's face, before stepping back, taking a deep breath, and affecting the bored poof again.

"You're mad - _you_ killed him," John croaked.

"Keep him from talking, would you?" Moriarty sighed, and one of the goons put his boot down, hard, on the back of John's neck. It was a struggle to draw breath, now, let alone speak. "Thank you," Moriarty drawled. "You see, John, we're meant for each other - not you and me," he snorted, "oh, god no. Me and Sherlock. Nobody else _thinks_ in this world, they're all morons. Except for _us_. He would have come around, eventually, but you," he glared at John, "You tried to turn him against me."

Moriarty sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I only saw him down at the resort, in the lobby. We had a little conversation... I really felt he was coming around." Moriarty sighed again, deeply. "I didn't follow him up that mountain path, of course. I have no head for heights!" He giggled. "They just make me _dizzy_... The tail I put on him did look quite a bit like me, didn't he? I wasn't sure that was how it would come out, but," he shrugged, "there was some use to having everyone think I was dead. Only I didn't want _Sherlock_ to die."

For just one moment, one hideous moment, John saw himself reflected in Moriarty's face. Then the man grinned again, and the shared pain faded.

"I normally just have my associates do the actual killing. But since I really have _you_ to blame for losing Sherlock," his face twisted as he snarled, then smoothed back out again, almost eerily charming, "well, I'm going to do this a little more slowly than I had originally planned." Moriarty nodded at the goon whose boot was on John's neck, and the man stepped away. John filled his lungs, prepared to rebuff, to contradict, to defy - and Moriarty kicked him in the face, hard. Blood spattered the side of the van.

"Oh, don't worry about the cleanup," Moriarty smiled. "That's why we got the cargo version. No carpet!"

The goons hauled John upwards, supporting him as his legs would not, and Moriarty's face twisted with rage. "Hit him," he told the last goon, the one who had been holding his boot on John's neck. "I don't want to have to clean my suit."

With his legs and arm useless, John's struggles were pathetic, and he could do little more than watch as the goon slammed his fist into John's torso, over and over. When he paused, John was coughing up blood, struggling to draw breath with ribs that were cracked, if not broken, and sending stabbing pain every time his diaphragm moved.

His head was swimming with pain, and it took him a moment to determine why the goon had stopped. The van was no longer moving.

"Wait here," Moriarty said, smoothly, stepping out of the side door. Pale dawn light filled the front of the van, and John could hear the faint sounds of the morning bustle just starting. He was being held in the back of the van, however, out of the sight lines of passing pedestrians, who would see nothing more than a delivery van. John's mouth was covered with a gloved hand, but it was hardly necessary; he could barely breathe, let alone speak.

"Now," hissed Moriarty. The goons hauled him, with the cover of a small break in the foot traffic, through a very familiar doorway, up far too familiar stairs, and deposited him in the front room of 221B.

It was strange, the things John noticed. A thick layer of dust was on the ground - it didn't look like anyone had been in here in the month and change since he had left. Sherlock's belongings, his piles of papers and experimental apparatus and the odd decorative weapon, were still all here, still in their familar places. John was surprised that Mrs. Hudson hadn't had them removed. It felt almost comforting, being in this room once more...

"Piss off," Moriarty told the goons. "Clean out the van, dump it." He watched them shuffle out of the room and down the stairs, then turned to John, an evil smile on his face. He held John's gun in his hand, tapping it on his thigh.

John tried to move, but it was no good. His legs were agony, his arm was useless; even trying to move his torso induced a flash of gut-churning pain.

"Well, here we are at last, Johnny-boy. I did think it was _so_ sweet, the way you tried to fight crime once Sherlock was dead. But," Moriarty sighed, running his finger down John's shirt, "as silly as it might sound, my dear, you're no Sherlock Holmes." He stood, wiping John's blood off of his finger on the chair with a look of disgust. "Not even close."

Yes - yes, that was true, wasn't it, and so there was some poetic justice in all of this. John turned his head - and found he was looking at the cold, sharp winter sun, spilling in the window as it had so many times in the year that he had known Sherlock - John sitting in his chair, Sherlock running around to figure out some case or do some ineffable scientific experiment. John felt - calm. Yes. He had felt this once before, when he had been shot, and the pain had saturated him until there was no more he could feel - and a certain serenity had come with that. He floated on waves of pain, thinking _I can't be hurt any more_.

"Lestrade - he is such a _good_ friend of yours, isn't he? He'll understand. You tried to vigilante the wrong fellow, and got shot with your own gun. The police won't have much sympathy. John - look at me, John." Moriarty's voice became annoyed.

John didn't want to, and really, what did he have to lose? Quite a year it had been, one he wouldn't give up if he had the chance to do it over. He wouldn't have that chance, anyhow - and that was all right. He would die here, looking out the window, surrounded by everything that reminded him of Sherlock - yes, that was all right.

Moriarty's face came between him and the window. "I said, _look_ at me, John," Moriarty said, tightlipped, and raised his gun.

John closed his eyes. A shot rang out, and he winced, instinctively, sending another searing barb of pain up from his abused ribs.

But he was still alive. He opened his eyes, and saw Moriarty, looking very surprised, with a bullet-hole in his head. Moriarty fell.

John felt like he should have some curiosity about what had happened, but the thought of turning his head again was more than he could bear. So he waited, and after a moment, a familiar face came into his line of sight.

Far too familiar.

The world went grey.

* * *

John woke, disoriented. Where was he? _Who_ was he? Somebody named John, yes, and he was lying down, and he - god, he was in agony, dried blood crusting his face, every ragged breath pain. He was not dead, he was alive. Sherlock was not dead - Sherlock!

He tried to sit up, but it was useless - his body would not obey. Every last part seemed to be throbbing in pain. A face appeared over him, an angular face, a face with two intense eyes under a messy shock of black hair. "Try not to move," a deep, resonant voice told him, and he could have cried at the sound of it.

"Sherlock..." he gasped.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his face as unreadable as ever. "I didn't mean for things to go - quite this far."

"You're not dead." It was an incredibly stupid sentiment, but it was too important not to state.

"No..." Sherlock's hands were opening and closing, as if he wanted to do something with them and couldn't. "You know how people's minds work. A little suggestion, and they'll believe anything. Say 'they've fallen!' and one falling body on a blurry vid becomes two." He knelt down, then, putting his hand gently on John's forehead. "I saw an opportunity to draw Moriarty out. I didn't know it would involve you." Briefly, very briefly, his face showed pain, and consideration, and caring - emotions he normally eschewed. "Don't move. We're getting someone to come by to take care of you."

The sound of feet on the stairs thudded through the floor, and John turned his head, with effort. Lestrade walked through the door. "I came over as soon as I heard you shot Mor..."

The Detective-Inspector's voice trailed to a halt as he saw the scene laid out in front of him. He swallowed, looking uncomfortable, and John could see, out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock's face harden.

Lestrade did not say a word - but John knew he did not have to. The look on Sherlock's face said it all - stony-faced, accusing, slightly disgusted. The greatest detective the word had yet seen was here, he had his hand on John - there was no question that he had deduced it, from the way Lestrade was looking at John, from the way John's pulse was throbbing painfully under Sherlock's hand. Yes, Sherlock knew what had happened between them, almost as surely as if he had been there. What John had done when he thought Sherlock was dead.

John closed his eyes, shame sweeping over him like a cloying blanket.


End file.
